


Say My Name

by Giggles96



Series: Daddy Knows Best [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Creeper Derek Hale, Daddy Kink, Dry Humping, Frottage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, crackish, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 05:40:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9221492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giggles96/pseuds/Giggles96
Summary: Prompt:Can you please pretty please write something where Stiles is unable to call Derek anything other than daddy or da-da? Please oh my God, please? Prefer it to be sexual but non-sexual’s fine too.When a witch’s curse renders Stiles unable to refer to Derek as anything other than Daddy, it never occurs to anyone that Derek may just have been granted his deepest, darkest wish.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written anything like this before, so I apologise in advance if it’s not very good. I tried my best, though, so…Enjoy, I guess :)

He’s going to die. Stiles is going to die, and his best friend is rolling around on the ground, tears streaming down his face from laughter.

“Scott!” he yells, so deeply and utterly betrayed. “Scott, stop that! This isn’t funny! Daddy—Jesus. Okay. Here we go. Take two. Dah-ah-haddy's gonna kill me. Wow, there is really no getting around this thing, is there?”

They’d been hunting a witch that had encroached on the preserve. Couldn’t prove she was up to no good, so the pack just went a little nuts with the scare tactics instead. Didn’t work, though. As you may have guessed. She just looked Derek straight in the eye, giggled like some little schoolgirl, and chanted some scary shit under her breath.

Next thing he knows Stiles is flat on his back blinking up at the sky and every time he attempts to address Derek freaking Hale, all that comes out is —

 _Daddy_.

“Stop it! Stop it!” Scott cackles, wiping tears from his eyes and wrapping an arm around his middle. He kicks his feet. “I can’t take anymore!”

“Dude, that’s the point. I _can't._ ”

“ _‘Oh, God, Daddy. Please don't kill me. I can't - I can't control this thing, I swear. Daddy, this isn't my fault—_ ’” Scott parrots back to him through howls of hysterical laughter. “Did you see Derek’s face? You did, didn't you? Oh, my God. Priceless! Wish I’d gotten a picture. He looked like he was having a fit. Man, you are so _dead_.”

“That’s what I keep saying!”

“He smelled _weird_ , though. Right? With the smell?" He scrunches his nose for a moment, then chuckles again. "But his face? Ha! I‘ll ever forget the look on his face!”

“Why aren’t you taking this more seriously? As my hereby  _former_ best friend, you’d think you’d be a little more concerned about my imminent death. I'm telling you, buddy. I can't say Daddy's name _—_ Aw, man. Really? I can't even _—?_ Holy shit, this blows.”

Scott rolls around in the grass, shoulders quaking in the wake of his breathless titters. “This is the best day of my life!”

Stiles rolls his eyes and scoffs. “Are you kidding me? I’m about to get murdered! As in, death by Alpha werewolf. As in, _Daddy_. Crap! You know what I mean. Do you know how much that‘s gonna hurt?” His ex-BFF simply continues sniggering like a paste-munching kindergartner hearing fart-jokes for the first time. “You know what? See you later, asshole. Or, you know, _never_. Catch your own ride home, you big, ugly butthead.”

 

—

When he gets home, Stiles is tired. He just wants to whack one off and fall asleep without thinking about anything. Certainly not a certain growly Sourwolf he sure a hell does not have the hots for who shall not be named, who he just made a complete fool outta himself with.

His Dad’s taking the night shift, so he doesn’t have to worry about sorting dinner. Stiles pours himself a bowl of Lucky Charms and eats them dry, dropping them one by one into his mouth. Then he pops open a can of soda to wash them down and guzzles it in one go. He drags his feet up the stairs, dreading the pile of Calculus homework waiting for him at his desk and groans lowly in the back of his throat, head thrown back all super dramatically. Doesn’t matter if no-one’s here to listen to him. He knows Calculus sucks and that’s all that matters right now.

Stiles enters his room to discover an angry-looking werewolf waiting for him. Which werewolf, you ask? _The_ werewolf. There can only be one.

“What are you doing here? Earlier wasn’t humiliating enough, you had to come back for round two?” Stiles throws his hands up. “You know what? Forget it. I can’t deal with this right now.”

Derek scowls harder. “Stiles.”

“What? If you’re looking for me to find a way out of this mess, you’ll be waiting a while, Da-ookay? I know I’m like the Research-Guru and whatnot—”

“—Nobody calls you that—”

“But I’m tired and I have homework to do, and honestly? As mortifying as this little hex is, to the best of my knowledge, it’s not life-threatening. But, you know who is life-threatening? My Dad when he finds out I’m flunking Calculus for absolutely no reason at all. B-minus? That’s what we like to call a brain-bomb in this household. And with all the supernatural shit that’s going down, I really can‘t afford to be grounded right now.”

By the end of his rant, Stiles is breathless.

The Alpha’s still scowling, though. So, yeah. He can tell it was super effective.

“Look,” Stiles sighs. “If you’re that weirded out by it or whatever, just-just don’t come around for a while. I’ll sit out this week’s pack meeting. Next week’s, too, if you need me to. I don’t mind. Well, I mean, I like Pack nights, so I’d be a little bummed out and all, and Isaac would mope around for a bit and give me the hangdog puppy look so I might make some promises I in no way intend to keep, but I’d totally understand! If it’s too awkward, we can avoid each other, right? How hard can it be?”

“Stiles—”

“Don’t bother arguing with me on this. I’ve made up my mind. Listen, Daddy, man, I'll—Wait—sorry. Slip of the tongue. Anyway…I'll fix it, okay? Just gimmie some time, okayyy—Oh, holy shit!”

Out of nowhere, Derek slams him against the wall and cages him in with two burly arms on either side of his head. He hadn’t even noticed him creeping closer. The creeper. Really, this shouldn’t come as such a shock. But it’s been a while since Stiles has been thrown around, and he kind of let his guard down. In fact, in his chest there’s a pang of disappointment, if he’s honest. He’d thought they were past this.

Derek leans in, hot breath fanning across his cheek.

“Say it.”

“Wait. What? Say _what_?”

“Say it—My name. Try and say my name. Then I‘ll go.”

“What? _No!”_

“Say my name, Stiles. I need to hear you say it.”

“No! What the hell is wrong with you? You know I can’t—can’t say anything other than… _that_ , right now. Just-just leave me alone!”

“My name, Stiles,” Derek growls, pressing closer. His voice is hoarse; he sounds parched. “Say it. Need you to-to—”  
  
And that's, oh, God, that's—Derek's hot length straining against the confines of his pants, butting into the soft flesh of Stiles’ thigh, rock-hard and alarmingly urgent. Stiles risks a glance down and can’t stop himself from wetting his lips and salivating at the sight. He swallows hard. His dick gives a little twitch.

Trapped inside dark, sinfully-tight jeans, the outline of Derek’s dick digging into his zipper is a beautiful, mouth-watering sight, indeed. Stiles can only too vividly imagine what kind of feast his alpha’s got stuffed inside that fat, promising bulge. A heavy, aching cock, leaking all day, by the look’s of it, desperate for release.

Stiles’ heart is suddenly racing.

A tantalizing patch of dampness has soaked through to the front of Derek‘s crotch. It’s no surprise Stiles missed it before. The gloomy fabric the Sourwolf favours is perfect for hiding any…indecent stains. Christ, Stiles stifles a moan, why is that thought so damn hot?

Stiles‘ cock, which was all-too-keen to rise to the occasion, chubs up so fast, he feels woozy for it. Sluggish, simmering heart curls low in his abdomen. The teen wonders if it’s just beads of pre-come seeping through the werewolf’s underwear, or if that’s leftover traces of cold, crusty come. He thinks it might be. Jesus fuck, he hopes.

“Stiles,” Derek grits. His gruff voice yanks him from his reverie. Stiles blinks, dazed. His gaze snaps up to the older man’s searing one. The Alpha’s pupils are blown, only a razor-thin ring of famished, almost feral red remains. His chest is heaving with each breath, lids hooded with lust.

“Say it.” His eyes flick away, then back again. The tip of his ears are red. “Please,” he tacks on, ever-so-politely.

Stiles feels an uncharacteristic surge of boldness. Either that or horniness, can be hard to tell. Curious, he rolls his hips against Derek’s minutely and has the satisfaction of watching the wolf’s lashes flutter with want. Stiles repeats the action and smiles when Derek instinctively meets him, a tentative give and take to start with, until Derek nudges the teenager’s thighs apart and pauses in an effort to regain control over his wolf. He sucks in deep, claws receding. Derek’s dick is so hard that he finds himself wrestling internally with the compulsion to cant his hips up a little and hump Stiles’ leg ‘til he passes out.

Stiles, the little shit, must sense this.

“Wh-why do you want me to say-say your name so bad?”

A muscle in his cheek spasms as he struggles to rip out the words. “B-because, I-I—”

“You what?” Stiles rocks up experimentally and is rewarded with another harsh hiss. “Like it?”

“Y-yes, Stiles. Yes! I like it.” Derek squeezes his eyes shut, pained, clammy and out of breath. “Is that what you want to hear? Huh? H-how I came in my pants like a teenager just from that-that one,” he shudders, “one word alone? Blew my load before I could even shove my hands down my pants?”

“How many times?”

Derek frowns, confused by the subject change. “What—?”

“How many times,” Stiles enunciates, oh-so-low and husky, “did you come? Once? Twice? Did you jack off at home thinking about me? Squeeze one out in the woods?”

Biting back a moan, Derek shuts his eyes and shakes his head, terse. “H-heard your conversation with Scott. A _aah_ -after. Everyone left. Couldn’t- couldn’t help myself.” His breath hitches as Stiles bucks up involuntarily. “Rutted up against a tree, came right there.”

Stiles swears. “ _Fuck_.”

The mental image Derek’s words provoke is almost too much. Just picture it. Oh, dear Lord, can he picture it. Derek rubbing his groin against an inadequate stretch of trunk like an unneutered puppy, keen to hump anything and everything, whatever’s available, because he just can’t restrain himself. Talk about fucking mind-blowing. That shit’s gonna be wringing orgasms outta him for years. “D-did it f-feel good?”

  
“Incredible,” Derek grunts, rutting back with equal fervour, “Not as good as you.”

The silence is punctuated by the rasp of denim-on-denim and winded pants as they grind their erections together, quickly gaining momentum; They adopt a pace which is both fast and merciless. Stiles rakes zealous fingers through Derek’s gelled hair and tugs hard, hooking his legs around the Alpha‘s waist, and causing Derek to clamp his hands around the boy’s sides in a bruising grip and snap his hips with a snarl.

It’s not enough. It’s too rough.

It’s dry and raw, save from his slavering pre-come, and there’s so much heat—pure, white-hot, carnal heat— rippling between the awful, pesky, irresistible layers of fabric. It chafes and burns, and makes Stiles thrust up that much harder. They are lost in a mindless rhythm. Shaking with the force of their combined desire.

“Stiles,” Derek huffs into his neck. “Stiles. Look at me.”

He pulls his head back and waits for those exquisitely expressive brown eyes to connect with his.

“That's it. That’s a good boy.” He pets the boy’s hair one-handed, dragging his throbbing erection over Stiles’ toe-curling heat. That sweet, delicious friction is going to make him come undone. “Can you say Daddy’s name? Be a good boy for Daddy?”

“Dah-ah- _ah_ -eeee.”

At the sound, Derek _keens_.

“Again.”

“Daahh-ahddeee.”

Strangled. “ _Again_.”

“ _Daaaddyyyy_.”

Derek shudders, whimpering loudly, and then—lips parted, eyes slipping shut in a moment of naked bliss—his back arches and he comes with a gasp.

It’s explosive. It’s everything.

It’s all-consuming.

His boxers are soggy with a copious amount of cum by the time he’s done. Derek has never once come so hard in his life. Beneath him, Stiles writhes as he sinks back to awareness to find himself sucking a blotchy crescent-shaped bruise into the boy’s collarbone and growling in contentment. “Such a good boy,” he croons, “Such a good, _good_ boy.” He nuzzles into the flushed skin there, nibbling as and where he pleases, while Stiles lolls his neck to the side to grant him more access and mewls softly. “Smell so good. Gotta-gotta make you mine. Everybody’ll know you're mine. My baby. Only mine.”

He scrapes his teeth across his pulse-point and darts his tongue out for a taste.  
  
“Yours, Daddy. All yours.”

All of a sudden, seemingly of their own accord, his hips are moving, shifting, his pants are once again tenting. Werewolves have a short refractory period, so sue him. Plus—this entire situation is doing wonders for his libido. He feels drugged.

“Next time - next time you’re gonna sit on Daddy's lap. Would you like that, baby boy? Squirming on Daddy's lap. Making Daddy feel good. Bet you'd like that. Good boy like you.”

“Y-yes, Dada.”

“Someday Daddy will have you drink his special milk. Maybe in a bottle; maybe fresh from his cock. Then you can grow up big and strong. Just like him. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

Stiles lets out a soft grunt of frustration, his thrusts steadily growing clumsier. “Daddy…”

“Shhh. Daddy knows just what you need. Dada will make you feel good.” Increasing his damn-near animalistic humping—harder, deeper, horny like he couldn’t believe—Derek prods Stiles‘ lips with the pad of his thumb until he opens his mouth wide enough for Derek to slip it in. Immediately, Stiles latches on. Sucking fast. He swirls his tongue around the tip and lightly pinches the skin between his teeth. The wet, slurping noises and tight suctions go straight to Derek’s cock. His balls hang heavy between his legs like he hasn’t cum in weeks.

It’s torture and ecstasy all rolled into one. It takes all of his power not to blow his load too soon.  
  
“Daddy…” Stiles drools all over his hand. “Mmm. M-more, Daddy.”

Without breaking speed, Derek peels off his v-neck, yanks it over his head, and chucks it aside in one smooth move. He paws at the boy’s torso, craving skin-on-skin contact, until the stupid Batman graphic tee rucks up and the clench and unclenching motion of Stiles’ stomach is exposed. It’s nothing like his own muscular chest, strong and positively ripped, but Derek doesn’t care in the least. Sliding a hand through the wispy hairs of Stiles’ happy trail and smirking as the teen trembles beneath him, Derek pushes forward so that they’re suddenly flush against each other, as close as physically possible.

He likes the look of his hand splayed across the seventeen-year-old’s tummy. It very nearly engulfs the whole thing. He grabs hold of one of Stiles’ hands just to see how small it looks in his.

Stiles is close. So close. The sensations are overwhelming. He feels as though he’s choking on pleasure. Or maybe that’s just Derek’s thumb. Same thing, in his book.

Stiles claws at the nape of Derek’s Henley, bunches the soft material in his fist and cries out in pleasure as his head thumps against the wall from the sheer intensity of Derek‘s ruts.

“Dah-AH-Ah-addeEEE. Gonna come, Daddy. Oh, fuck, so close, Dada.”

Derek presses their foreheads together, sticky with sweat. His skin is warm. Feverish. When he speaks, his voice is strained, like the words are punched out of him. Or as if he’s just run a marathon.

“Hope this curse never wears off. Hope when it does, you’ll have-uhh, forgotten my real name.”

Stiles is so overwrought that he babbles mindlessly, sentences slurring. “My Daddy now. Never gonna be any other-any other name. My Daddy. Forever.”

His words send Derek tumbling over the edge. He jerks once, then goes still, creaming his pants for the fourth time. Stiles follows suit soon after, his muscles locking up as an earth-shattering orgasm ruptures through him, teeth rattling from the depths of it, flares of white-hot electricity tingling up his spine as he shoots his seed in his underwear with a cry.

“Dah-dah- _Derek!”_

Just like that. The spell is lifted.

 

—

　

When he stirs, hours later, Derek is snuffling against the back of his neck and rubbing his cheek over his head every so often. He can hear the long, deep pulls as the werewolf scents him. They’re lying in his bed, cocooned in a nest of blankets and tees and sweatshirts Stiles knows for a fact don’t belong to him. At some point, he’s been cleaned up and changed out of his soiled garments, which is nice, because dried cum? Seriously—the worst.

They’re cuddling. Stiles and Derek are _cuddling_.

He knows this, because Derek’s arm tightens around his waist and Stiles is pressed up against his bare chest. Their legs are tangled together. They haven’t even kissed.

“I’ll still call you Daddy, you know…if you want.”

Against his hair, Stiles grins as he feels the brush of Derek’s lips.

(He doesn’t even mention the power of True Love in his jizz.)

 

**Author's Note:**

> Wanna get in touch? Come visit me on [tumblr](http://freetoagoodhome-giggles96.tumblr.com).


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